


Weekend Away

by glanmire



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: AU, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Pining, TW Antisemitism, scouting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-08 23:57:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1961115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glanmire/pseuds/glanmire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Logan self-immolates, Hank nearly loses an eyebrow and Charles tries not to stare at Erik Lehnsherr too often.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weekend Away

 

I.

 

“Logan just sprayed his neckerchief with deodorant and set it on fire,” Charles reports to Erik, watching his expression carefully. “He’s still wearing it,” Charles he adds, which is an important detail.  
“Isn’t he our goddamn first-aider?” Erik replies. 

“That he is.” 

Erik sighs, but it’s an amused sigh, not an exasperated one. “Want to watch what happens, and give out to him later?” he suggests. 

“That is exactly what I was hoping you would say,” Charles admits, and then they’re running out to see Logan do damage to himself, as usual. 

 

Erik is the Patrol Leader of this scout troop, and that means he’s in charge, he takes initiative and leads and all that nonsense. Most of his time is spent trying to control Logan, which is a job no-one envies. Charles is the Assistant Patrol Leader, and _no_ , he’s not Erik’s PA, it doesn’t work like that. It means whenever Erik has wandered off to go snog some Brownie or god forbid, a Girl Guide in the dingy little toilets or in the bushes somewhere, then Charles is meant to be charge, though Charles just doesn’t have the same authoritative tone Erik has.  
Scott’s got it worse though. He’s the quartermaster, which is the shittiest job in the history of shitty jobs because it basically means stopping Logan from ambling in and stealing food he whenever wants. Come to think of it, most of their jobs involve stopping Logan from doing shit, instead of actually being productive in their own right. Logan himself is first-aider, because there’s zero responsibility involved with that one;either you need a plaster or the hospital, and everyone can put on their own damn plasters, thank you very much. Hank is the scribe, which mean taking minutes and writing diaries and things that literally no-one else is bothered doing. Angel is fire-master, because she gets to mess around with matches for hours when everyone else is actually doing shit, and Raven is chef, to everyone’s unanimous dismay. 

The phrase ‘ragtag group of misfits’ has never been more apt. 

 

II.

 

“Jesus Logan how many years have you been in this, you can’t just poke the tent pole through the fabric, there’s a pocket it goes through,” Erik says sharply. 

“I’ll poke you with my tent pole,” Logan replies threateningly, waggling the pole menacingly, but he fixes it anyway.  
 Charles is on his knees square-lashing nearby, and he’s wearing those fingerless gloves that help with the inevitable rope burn, although the slagging he’s getting over them is nearly not worth it.

“All okay here?” Erik asks, coming over to him, his tone somewhat softer now. 

“Got a penknife on you?” Charles enquires, looking up at him. Erik pulls one out of his pocket and tosses it at him. Erik’s pocket’s are like Batman’s infamous -satchel, backpack, whatever it was, Charles didn’t read the comics- and contain penknives, lighters, cigarettes, condoms and gum. Charles reckons at least one of those items is a little unnecessary, but he’s stopped trying to convince Erik. 

Raven’s cooking. Charles watches as she lights the gas cooker and places it on the grass.  
“What?” she says at Charles’ look. “Logan and Scott did a shoddy job on the table, I didn’t want to balance our dinner on those lashings. The cooker can’t fall off the floor.” 

He finishes his knot and sits next to her, and they cut vegetables for a while. It’s quiet now, except for Logan’s occasional outbursts, and Charles finds himself wishing it wasn’t the last night of camp. A guy could get used to this. 

 

III. 

 

Tony Stark has a very hands-off method of leading. In fact, he was so hands-off, sometimes he didn’t turn up, but sent some guy in a suit instead. Today was one of those days. 

“Do you think he’s vetted?” Raven asks Charles conspiratorially. 

Charles appraises the guy. Seemed like a douche-bag anyway, with sunglasses and a full suit - and is that an ear piece? Pretentious much - 

“I’m sure he’s not a rapist,” Charles says, “but I don’t think he knows too much about scouting either.”

 

Bruce, on the other hand, was there just because he wanted to. The guy didn’t have too much family, and it was a weekend away with the scouts, or a weekend alone, so the choice was easy. He was soft-spoken and encouraging and told corny jokes and knew absolutely nothing about scouting, and they loved him anyway. 

“I was thinking guys,” Bruce says after a while, “Are you lot still hungry? Dinner was great really,” and he smiles weakly at Raven, “but we can get pizza if you want.”

“Erm, Bruce? How will we pay for it?” Scott asks, and a year ago Charles would have piped up saying ‘let me pay’, but he’s since learnt that people don’t want him to pay for everything, even if he doesn’t mind. 

“Tony left some spending money,” Bruce admits, glancing at the guy in the suit. “We have lee-way.” 

 

IV. 

 

The pizza comes and they sit on the grass cross-legged and open the boxes out on the floor, and everyone gorges themselves until they can’t eat anymore. Erik eats more than Logan, which is saying something.  
When they’re done Charles takes off his jacket and bundles it up and uses it as a pillow, and Erik lies back beside him. 

Erik is only wearing a t-shirt, and he’s got these lightly tanned arms with blondish hair on them. “Not cold?” Charles asks. 

“I’m a bit tougher than that, thanks,” Erik says, “but thanks for the vote of confidence.” 

Scott and Logan are battling over the last slice of pizza, and what Logan has in brute strength Scott has in smarts. Angel, Raven and Hank are talking about nothing and everything, the boys and girls they’ve kissed and who they’d get with here. 

Erik is staring up at the stars like they’re a puzzle to be solved, like if he concentrates enough, the universe will bend to his will. Charles stretches out and touches his arm, just for a moment. 

“Hey,” he says, and doesn’t ask what Erik is thinking about, because it’s obvious. 

“Will we make a campfire?” 

That brooding look is gone as quick as it came, and Erik grins at him. 

“You always have the best ideas Charles.” 

 

They jump up, and grab some firewood and kindling from the shed. Charles even gets the sand and water buckets.  
“What?’ he says defensively at Erik’s scoff. “Safety is important.” 

Erik nudges him with his shoulder and mutters, “nerd,” and takes out his lighter. 

“Hey, Erik and Charles?” Bruce says from his deckchair, putting down his book. “You guys building a campfire?” 

“Yeah,” Erik replies. 

“Need a hand?” Bruce asks. 

“No thanks!” Charles says. 

Bruce looks relieved, and sinks back into his book. 

 

V.

 

The fire is alive somehow, sparking up. They toss more wood into it now and again, and thousands of little sparks shoot up and out and then fall back down to earth. It’s warmer now at least, but the rest of the campsite looks colder, quieter, and Charles doesn’t want to consider leaving this warm spot they’ve cultivated. 

 

“Anyone got a song?” Bruce asks hopefully. 

Raven pokes Angel in the ribs, who even in the lowlight is clearly blushing. “Maybe later,” she says offhandedly, glaring at Raven, who sticks her tongue out at her.  

“No problem,” Bruce says. “Anyone else?” 

Logan jumps up, dragging Scott up with him. 

“ONE TWO THREE FOUR,” he yells, and Charles nearly falls into the fire he gets such a shock. 

Scott looks vaguely embarrassed and mutters, “five six seven eight,” waving his hand to indicate that the rest of them should sing along. No-one does. 

“LET ME SEE YOUR BOOGALOO,” Logan roars, and Charles really wonders if the volume is necessary, really. 

“What’s that you say?” Scott says, and he’s dying, he really is, and Charles is extremely curious to know how Logan convinced him into this. 

“I said LET ME SEE YOUR BOOGALOO!” 

The two exchange a look, and then they start having a synchronised seizure. Limbs flail out in every direction. “Boogaloo, boo boo ga loo WOO.” 

It seems this is interpretative dancing of the word ‘boogaloo.’  
Charles dares to look at Erik, who’s smiling, but in a fond way, as if he’s seen this before. 

“Care to tell me what’s going on?” he asks. 

“Dance with me Charles,” Erik says suddenly, maybe joking, maybe not, and then his strong hands are pulling Charles up and he’s laughing and Scott looks so relieved. 

“One two three four?” Logan asks, eyeing them up. 

“FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT!” Erik and Charles shout, and Scott mumbles “Yeah, that.” 

“Can I see your funky chicken?” Logan asks. 

“Errr,” Charles says, and Erik nudges him again. “What’s that you say?” he says, and Charles may be wrong but he thinks some of the other scouts said it along with him that time. 

“Can I see your funky chicken?” Logan asks again, and Charles knows its coming now and he grimaces and sees Erik bend his elbows and do some garbled impression of a chicken in a way that only Erik can do with a straight face and Charles attempts it, he does. He sees Raven dramatically stand up and flap her arms about and he feels a rush of fondness towards her. 

“I’ll leave you two to it,” Scott mutters and sits back down, still blushing. 

The song goes on. Erik, Charles and Logan do vampires and frankenstein and ‘shoot the moon’ and at this stage most of the scouts are standing and doing it, because if Erik isn’t embarrassed then it can’t be embarrassing. 

“Let me see your underwear!” Logan yells and Charles feels his jaw fall open and Erik only grins mischievously. 

“What’s that you say?” Charles asks, and he means it this time. 

“Let me see your underwear,” and Charles thinks _surely not_ and then he spies Erik holding up the end of his t-shirt and flapping it around and Charles follows suit. 

Charles can see Erik’s washboard stomach now, and he looks away, to Raven who’s smirking as if to say _you hardly thought we were just going to bare it all_ and Charles looks away, abashed. 

 

The night follows in that manner. Angel does sing her song eventually and it’s pretty damn good and Charles sees Erik look at her appreciatively and Charles gets that feeling that’s working away at his insides, like the water has suddenly run cold. 

 

They do the cliched thing of cooking marshmallows too, and Charles’ marshmallow goes on fire, and he didn’t even know that they were that flammable, honestly, and it’s got this horrible black skin on it. 

“It’s not ruined,” Erik says, and deftly peels back the charred bit so there’s white, gooey marshmallow underneath. “You still want it?” 

“Help yourself,” Charles says and Erik pops it into his mouth. 

“Remind me not to make you our chef Charles, you’re as bad as Raven.” 

He chucks a marshmallow at Erik’s head for that but Erik catches it and eats it. He’s ridiculous. 

 

“Chwubby bunny,” Logan is solemnly, his mouth stuffed full of marshmallows. “Logan always wins,” Angel explains to Charles. “It’s a competition, how many marshmallows can you get in your mouth and still say chubby bunny.”

“They’re on fifteen now,” Raven says excitedly. “C’mon Hank!”

Hank says, “Chh,” and frowns. “Chhby” he tries again. 

“You can do it,” Charles finds himself saying, oddly invested in the game.

“Chhh.” Hank’s eyes are wide with desperation- Charles wonders what’s at stake here, other than his pride- “CHH BBBB!”

Scott scoffs. “Sorry Hank, that wasn’t clear enough.” 

Hank looks at Erik with pleading eyes- because these things are always decided by Erik- and Erik smiles wickedly. 

“Give him one more marshmallow.” 

Hank’s cheeks are swollen like a gerbils at this point, and he shakes his head in defeat. 

Erik sighs. “We have a forfeit then. Logan is the winner.” 

Logan smiles, a smile jammed full of partially-dissolved marshmallows. It’s hideous. 

Hank goes and discreetly spits out the fifteen marshmallow in the bushes. Logan swallows his lot and yawns. “Too easy,” he growls. “What should Hank’s forfeit be?” 

“Nothing illegal, please,” Bruce says from behind his book, and they ignore him. 

“The usual?” Logan asks Scott who smiles. 

“What’s the usual?” Charles asks Erik. 

“Eyebrow shaving.” 

“Nah,” Scott says. “The kid has enough trouble picking up chicks. I say rubbish-duty for the next three camps.” 

Logan looks Hank up and down, and nods. “Yeah, I didn’t want him messing up my razor anyway,” he says, and Charles laughs, because really? Logan is the hairiest, scruffiest teenager Charles has ever met, and one razor alone really wouldn’t remove a notable percentage of his hair anyway.  
Logan eyes Charles, who stops laughing at once. “I was picturing Hank with no eyebrows,” he says quickly. 

Logan grunts- is that a thing that people really do? Grunting?- and turns back to Hank. “Count yourself lucky kid.” 

 

The group disperses again, now that the game is over, but Charles hears Hank mutter, “Scott.” 

“What?”

“Thanks. For, y’know.” 

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” Scott says.  

“For not letting him shave off my eyebrow.” 

Scott’s gaze softens. “Logan’s harmless once you get to know him.”

“That’s what I was trying to do,” Hank mumbles. 

Scott slaps him on the back. “Earning his respect through eating copious amounts of marshmallows? That was your game plan?” 

Hank nods and Scott smirks. “Well, I’ve heard worse.” 

Charles smiles to himself. He himself had earned Logan’s respect by downing six beers in an hour, but no need to tell Hank that. He was a bit young yet, even for under-age drinking. 

 

IV. 

 

Erik and Charles crawl into their tent, and Charles grabs his wash-kit, and then watches Erik pull off his shoes and crawl into his sleeping bag. 

“You’re not going to go to the bathroom?” he asks incredulously. 

“Are you questioning my ability to judge whether I need a piss or not Charles?” Erik retorts. 

“No, Jesus no, I just meant-” and Charles trails off, waving a hand. “Don’t you need to brush your teeth, or wash your face or..?” 

Erik flops onto his belly. “It’s the last night. I don’t even care anymore. I can be clean tomorrow.” 

“I guess,” Charles says noncommittally. “I’ll be back in a moment.” 

 

When he comes back Erik looks to be asleep. Charles zips the tent shut as quietly as he can, and pulls himself into the sleeping area. He’s getting into his sleeping bag when Erik finally speaks. 

“Charles?” 

“Yeah?” 

“We should hang out sometime. Y’know, not with everyone, but like, us.” 

Charles stares at Erik’s back, the muscular shoulders, the rhythm of his breathing. “I’d like that,” he says carefully. He wants Erik to face him but he doesn’t want that as well, because he can actually look at Erik now, for as long as the light lasts. 

“You can’t come over to mine,” Erik says, and Charles wriggles closers, so close he can see the small short hairs on the back of Erik’s neck.  
“I know,” he says. Erik lives with his foster family, the Shaws, who in Erik’s words were ‘only fostering kids to make a quick buck.’ They didn’t really like Erik himself, no mind a guest coming over and ‘using their valuable resources.’

“That’s why they signed me up for scouts,” Erik says after a moment. “All those long weekends where someone else would be looking after me.” 

Charles doesn’t know what to say but he wants to touch Erik somehow, put a hand on his, for comfort, but he knows that’s not acceptable, not appropriate, not allowed, and never will be.  

“Well you’re always welcome at my house,” he says. “I did ask mother would she foster you but that didn’t go down well.” 

Erik flips around to face Charles. Their faces are so close that Charles can count the flecks in Erik’s eyes, but right now he’s more concerned with Erik’s expression. 

“You asked her could she foster me?” Erik asks flatly. 

“Yeah,” Charles says and squirms, “I mean, it was never going to work, but-” 

Erik starts barking out a laugh and Charles is so relieved that he laughs too. 

“You’re crazier than me,” Erik says. “In your own way.” 

“Gee, thanks.” 

“I mean it,” Erik says, and somehow, it’s a compliment, and Charles lets it warm him. 

“You can come over anytime,” he says again, quietly. “I don’t even have to be there. My mum probably won’t notice the difference.” 

Erik chuckles, and turns away from Charles. “Goodnight Xavier.” 

“‘Night Lehnsherr.” 

He knows Erik isn’t going to sleep just yet. If he knows Erik, then he’s going to stay awake as long as he can, to savour every second that he has left before he has to go back to that awful house, but clearly he’s done talking. 

Charles wants to savour the moment too, but he’s drained and for once sleep seems like the better option then staring at Erik Lehnsherr wistfully. 

 

V. 

 

Erik is all scowls the next day, and nothing Charles says can wipe them away. He stops trying after a while. Some of them are happy to go home; Hank in particular looks positively delighted, but Charles isn’t, not when Erik isn’t. 

 

The car comes for Charles and Raven on time. Raven slings her rucksack into the boot and hugs everyone, even Bruce, who looks startled by that turn of events. 

Erik is pointedly looking away from Charles. 

“Hey Erik, do you have a lift coming?” Charles asks. 

“I’ll walk,” Erik says firmly. 

“We can drop you off, it’s an hour-long walk back to your place at least-”

“I’ll walk,” Erik says again. 

Charles knows Erik isn’t angry at him in particular, that he’s angry at his situation, that he has to go home, but Charles was never very patient. 

“Fine,” he says. “See you whenever.” 

Erik looks at him then, finally, and nods. That’s that. 

Charles gets into the car and waves at the others. Erik is still staring at him. 

The driver pulls away from the curb and Charles waits one, two, three seconds, and his resolve cracks. “Pull in, would you, just for a moment?” he says, his manners impeccable as always. The driver pulls in again and Charles sticks his head out the window. 

“Want to come over to mine for a while, Erik? Like, now?” 

Everyone else looks confused, but Charles is only looking at Erik, who Charles gets the feeling wasn’t going to go home at all, was going to smoke and drink and wait, wait if anyone noticed, wait if anyone would come to find him. 

Erik smiles, and then he’s jogging after the car in that confident way of his and Charles is breathing again. Erik sits shot-gun, even though you’re meant to sit in the back, but it would have been cramped back there with three of them, admittedly. 

“To the Xavier mansion,” he says, half-joking, and the driver nods and everything is going to be okay. 

 

VI. 

 

Raven’s already gone to bed, but Erik and Charles are watching a horror movie when Erik hears a scraping sound at the door. 

He glances over at Charles, who is staring steadfastly at the screen. Erik can hear the front door handle being pumped, as if the person outside thinks it’s broken, and not locked. 

“Charles?” he asks quietly. 

“Just my mother,” Charles says, still watching the screen where the murderer is hunting down the teenagers. “No need to worry.” 

The doorbell goes off then, and again, and again, a cacophony of ding-dong, ding-dong. Erik hears a grating voice call out, “Charlie, let me in for God-sakes!” 

Charles stands up slowly, not looking at Erik. “Back in a moment,” he says stiffly, and goes to the front hall. 

Erik watches the screen and tries to immerse himself in the grisly scene that’s unfolding, but he can still hear their conversation. 

“Go on, just please mother, I have a friend over.” 

He hears a cutting laugh. He didn’t know laughs could be so vicious. 

“You have a friend?” she says. “I want to meet him.” 

“No mother-” Charles pleads, but then the living room door is swinging open and she’s staring at Erik coldly. Her lipstick is dark purple, mottled around her lips, and her hair is lopsided, like it’s a wig. 

“What’s your name?” she asks bluntly. 

Erik stands - this seems like the kind of house where you stand when you’re talking to adults, though that in itself is infuriating. 

“Erik Lehnsherr,” he says. He does not extend a hand. 

“What sort of name is that?” she asks. 

“German,” he replies laconically. 

“German,” she repeats, disgust on her face. “Bet you have some lovely Nazi heritage, don’t you? I don’t want you corrupting my son with those awful Aryan ideals-”

“I’m Jewish,” Erik says, stepping forward. 

Mrs Xavier- he still hasn’t found out her name- laughs again, a laugh devoid of humour. 

“I will not a Jew in my house,” she says, leaning against the doorframe for support. “Get out.” 

“Mother!” Charles shouts, shocked.  
“I can call social services,” Erik says coldly, ignoring Charles. “They’ll take Charles from you, if you drink like this every night.” 

She laughs then, a laugh without humour. “As if my lawyers would let that happen. Is it money you want, boy? We’re very rich you know. I’ll pay you to leave my son alone.” 

Erik’s throat is tight with anger, and his nails are digging crescent-shaped graves into his palms, but he does not trust himself to speak. Mrs Xavier looks at him once more, and then turns to Charles.  
“Charlie dear, you simply cannot be consorting with such vile little boys- you know the Jews, they’re always after money-”

Charles steps forward and places a hand on her shoulder. “I think that’s enough Mother.” 

She looks at him for a moment, curiously, then seems to sag. “Perhaps you’re right Charlie, I do feel a little tired now. Won’t you help your mother to bed?” 

Charles nods and slips his arm around her. He guides her away with words of encouragement, and Erik is left standing at the door. 

He hears murmurs, and then the unmistakable sound of someone getting sick. He doesn’t sit back down. Charles is gone for about ten minutes, and when he comes back, his hands are shoved in his pockets, his shoulders hunched.   
“I’m so sorry Erik,” he says, his blue eyes pleading _don’t blame me for my mother’s words._ “I’ll understand if you want to go home.”  
Erik realises somehow that Charles has not made any excuses for his mother; no _she’s under a lot of stress_ or _she’s not usually this bad._ He’s grateful for that much at least. Excuses have no places in apologies. 

His instinct is to leave, to walk home to his own hateful house, but he realises that this isn’t about him. It’s Charles who has to live with this. 

“I’ve heard worse,” he says, attempting a smile. Charles’ relief is palpable, and his eyes light up, and Erik feels warmer again. Charles nudges Erik lightly,as if he’s still being careful with him somehow. “C’mon,” he says, “I haven’t fed you in hours, you must be famished.” 

Well, Erik isn’t going to deny that. They wander into the kitchen and there’s food in this house, food that they seem to be allowed to eat without question. Erik doesn’t remark on it, but he takes it all in, the full-fridge, the cupboards bursting. Charles follows his gaze. 

“No, mother doesn’t buy all of that, she gets the household staff to do it. They tend to go overboard.” 

They assemble a sort of midnight feast. Erik hasn’t seen this much food in one place for a long time. The Shaws don’t believe in buying food in bulk, or sometimes, at all. There’s always enough for Shaw himself, and Emma, but Erik goes without now and again. He didn’t know that that wasn’t normal. 

He also thinks that Charles doesn’t know that his mother’s behaviour isn’t normal- or he’s only learning that, slowly- but damn if Erik is going to tell him. Erik is just oddly proud of Charles, for the way he manages all this, that there’s no self-pity, no excuses.  

“To family,” Charles says sarcastically after a moment, holding his glass of coke aloft. 

Erik looks at Charles, his only friend and his best friend, who has flaws and faults and yet who Erik considers to be his brother now. “To family,” he echoes, staring at Charles Xavier, the only family Erik has ever known. 

 

 


End file.
